Cry havoc and let slip the songs of war…for too long the over polished and easily forgotten have had their way, held up in the glare of the television lights, fawned over by many, lauded as saviours of popular music by some, this sense of over-rated gravitas is a million miles from the sound of a truth, of one that is pure and comes with several warnings attached to the side.
We all have that one particular place that sits in our minds and refuses to budge, turns down the invitation to move on and reclines back in the imaginary sofa and waits for you to give in and join it there, if not in body, then at least in spirit. It is the place where your dreams go when the time is right, where your hopes are always seen in full colour and each detail ever seen is carefully stored and reminisced about till the end of days; it is the memory of such fine things, of the music in the water and the crevices in the landscape that become part of the story as Lori Watson takes the listener for a ramble and rummage in the Yarrow Acoustic Sessions.
Somewhere in the bowels of the Earth resides hope that has been lost, a hope that brings together the avant-garde and the willingness to take risks, to tackle the slice by slice dissection we face of our time and the way we use it; it is the hope of the scream, of the passion that conquers the disinterest, and one that Rick Senley captures in his guise as I Am The Man With The St. Tropez Tan with his typical abundant flourish.
The exploration of the past is a welcome and worthwhile pursuit, when seen through the eyes of the group collective the results of this journey is one to take heart from, the dynamic of tossing ideas around, bouncing the traditional against the power of the contemporary and progressive is fresh, prevailing and yet is sincere in its outlook to pay homage and in the scope of the English language there is arguably no greater writer to pay that respect to than William Shakespeare.
We are only human after all, we see the world not in black and white but in an armada of colours, almost psychedelic, almost in a state of flux somewhere between utter panic and soulful serenity; to think otherwise is to deny ourselves one of the basic fundamentals of existence, that when look into the eyes of strangers, of those we see every day, and even the constant weave of those we fancy, take a shine too or just daydream about, we know deep down that the Beautiful People Will Ruin Your Life.
Somewhere up past New York City’s 77th Street, digging deep into the Harlem past and roundabout cool, there is a place in which the Blues can be heard to be more than a memory, more than being a place in which the lure of the quick and easy buck can nestle alongside reminisce and virtue. Somewhere in the deep heart of New York’s five boroughs is still the sound of piano driving home the call to the San Francisco coast and the Mississippi heartlands of the put upon working class, that Blues is still a God to reckoned with, that Mitch Woods is still one of the purveyors of the sad lament and truthful bible and with the help of Friends Along The Way, the sound never will diminish in its importance and heart breaking purity.
In the end addiction will get the better of you, even in the comforting tones of art, for in striving for more, to reach the high that comes with the laudable and the attained pleasure, the chemicals in the brain will tell you that it can always be pursued, that tiredness can be overcome with positive thoughts, a different diet, exercise, taking the advice of the desperate for attention and the ones who hold a pointed gun at your temple.
Often in life the artist only allows you to see what you need to see, you witness the birth, the adolescence, the moments in between, the subtle changes in appreciation as they find their feet, as they delve into the corners of their mind in search of new ways to make the audience laugh, love, weep and feel the pain and joy of existence.
If there is no sense of the immediate in this fast paced world, no look of the instant result or abrupt hook, then it tends to be dismissed, for many people it has no relevance, a word bandied about by those often with no patience or no desire to look beyond their own worlds and experience, the dots not connected, the links not forged, the immediate has become a god of words signifying very little, and in the same way as the phrase “good for the economy” has come to imply that nothing else matters but this ravenous giant, so too does immediate spell the doom for the gentle carousal of building interest to be found in the form of painted imagery.
Ask anyone, pick on a stranger, find a friend to converse with down the local, take a trip out to your nearest and dearest and ask them a simple yet illuminating question, take heed of their answer and then go out into the street and ask the same line of enquiry to a thousand others, the startling realisation is that everybody has their own truth, the mantra in which they live by and the devotion to which their serve it.